


All in the Family—Tales

by Polly_Lynn



Series: The Heliotrope Series [4]
Category: Castle
Genre: Babies, F/M, Family Feels, Family Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-18
Updated: 2015-09-18
Packaged: 2018-04-21 10:30:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4825676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Polly_Lynn/pseuds/Polly_Lynn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"However much she's winding herself up, it's relief to have him near. He's stretched out on his side, his body not quite flush with hers, though he bends his knees and shifts his hips, aligning himself to her contours, dipping his head to press a kiss to her shoulder and whisper good night like always, and it's such a relief."</p>
            </blockquote>





	All in the Family—Tales

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Comes after All in the Family—Someday in the All in the Family series.

 

* * *

 

He thinks she's asleep. He must, because he's doing that tiptoe thing he seems to think makes him quieter. (It doesn't make him quieter. _Nothing_ makes him quieter.) Worse still, he hasn't even left the nightlight in the bathroom on for himself, and here he is stumbling. Groping with his bare toes and going _so_ slowly, even though they've both been awake forever, and he has to be ready to drop. Even though he has to be at _least_ as tired as she is, he goes slowly, all because he thinks she's asleep.

_Hopes she's asleep._

It's a hissing, sinister thought when it comes, and it's unfair. It's _so_ unfair to him. To herself, and she knows. She _knows_ what this is and how stupid she's being. All the ways she's winding herself up for no good reason. She knows he doesn't hope she's asleep. Knows the sweet, earnest look he'll give her in the morning when he holds on a little longer and whispers in her ear.

_Have to. Didn't get my goodnight kiss. Have to, Beckett._

She knows that he means it. That he's disappointed every time he doesn't get to whisper _I love you_ and press his lips to hers, the very last thing before he closes his eyes. And if he _does_ hope she's asleep—if he hopes even a little—it's for her sake, not his.

He's at the bedside, finally. Easing himself down, slow and careful, even though it's hopeless. Even though he's so much bigger than her that trying to minimize the pitch and yaw of the mattress is absolutely hopeless.

And then he's actually in the bed at last, and however much she's winding herself up, it's relief to have him near. He's stretched out on his side, his body not quite flush with hers, though he bends his knees and shifts his hips, aligning himself to her contours, dipping his head to press a kiss to her shoulder and whisper _good night_ like always, and it's _such_ a relief.

"Tell me again," she says in a voice so small she can't be sure it's hers.

"Kate!" He's surprised. Of course he's surprised. He's just spent five full minutes on the theatre of quiet, thinking she was asleep. "You're . . ."

"Awake," she finishes, pulling his arm tight around her. Fitting her body to his and securing his fingers as though he might try to bolt. "Stupidly, _stupidly_ awake. So tell me again."

The monitor lights up. It crackles with sound. Soft, contented babbling and the occasional percussion of feet kicking at the slats of the crib. The little contortionist must've managed to turn herself sideways for the hundredth time tonight.

"Please, Castle," she says, letting out a breath when the monitor lights die down again. "Tell me again."

And he does. He shifts and prods at her until their bodies lock together in a familiar fit. He tells her.

"She's a perfect baby. Smart and adorable and affectionate and wonderful in every way." He burrows closer to her. Further under the covers for shelter or comfort or strength in numbers, maybe, because he's tired, too. Daunted by what's before them. "She's a happy, healthy, brilliant baby who does _not_ like to sleep at night _."_

"But it's fine." She fills that part in herself. Why, she doesn't know. He's a lot more convincing when it come to this.

"It's completely fine. She gets plenty of sleep. And . . . " He pauses dramatically, and she falls for it. She cranes to look at him. He's a little nervous about whatever it he's about say. A little nervous, but steely, too. "And it has nothing to do with your going back to work tomorrow."

"I didn't say that!" She protests loudly. Too loudly, and it makes him laugh as her head whips around, unbidden, to check on the rise and fall of the bars of light from the monitor. "I didn't _think_ that," she grumbles.

"Liar." He nips her shoulder. Nudges her head back to the pillow with his nose. "You've been thinking it all along."

He's right, and it's worse than that. Because she's _so_ ready to be back at work. So ready to hit the familiar stride as she walks a crime scene, and more than ready to have the gears of her mind spinning up. Working hard in the way she loves. She's so ready to be running circles around idiots who think they're getting away with something.

But she's so _not_ ready to not be here. To not have the luxury of dancing around the kitchen with the baby's blue eyes going wide, her mouth opening in the funny little crow she makes when she wants more of something. She's not ready to not be able to slip into the nursery at any given moment and lay a hand on the warm, satisfying roundness of her belly as it rises and falls when she _does_ sleep.

She's so not ready for every day not to be the three of them against the world. Stumbling over each other and screwing it up. Getting it right and piling together on the couch or the bed or one of the big chairs to laugh and sigh over how beautiful she is. How hilarious and expressive and sweet smelling she is. The very crown of her head. The crease of her little elbows. How beautifully funny looking her toes are.

"I don't want to go back." She struggles away from him. Flops to her back and stares at the ceiling. "I don't."

"You do, Kate." He runs a hand over her shoulder. A soft, staying gesture. "You're itching to get back."

"But I _shouldn't_ be." She hates herself for moaning about it. Hates thinking how high the lights would climb if the monitor were two-way.

"Shouldn't," he repeats, and there's something in his tone that puts her on alert. "Ah. I get it now." He rolls on to his back at her side and folds his hand on his stomach, his eyes on the ceiling, too, and a very pointed not-smile on his face. "We're dealing with a Beckett Rule. I should have known."

"Beckett Rule." She slaps at his ribs with the back of her hand. "Shut up." Her eyes shift to look at him sideways. "What's a Beckett Rule?"

"It's a rule you make up that no one else would ever dream of holding you to, but you stick to it and never talk about it, so to the outside world you just look like a stubborn . . ."

He gets a pillow to the face for that.

"When have I _ever . . .?"_

She's sputtering, but he rolls himself on top of her. He prods her ribs with his fingertips, counting off.

"Let's see _. . ._ resisting my charms for four years. Beckett Rule. No making out in the precinct. Definitely a Beckett Rule"—he gives her a sidelong look and a grin—"you're really bad at that one, but still . . . and then there's mandatory pants after 8 am, even on weekends, which is _ridiculous_. . ."

He goes on, kissing her as punctuation for each silly thing until she's laughing. Tearing up a little, too, because she's such a _stereotype_ , and his kisses grow softer. More earnest. "No one thinks less of you for wanting to go back to work, Kate. No one thinks you can't go on being a kick-ass mother and a kick-ass cop at the same time. Not me, or your dad, or my mother . . ."

"Not the Mad One?" She rolls her head to the side just as the lights spike again. There's a delighted laugh. The hearty thump of feet on wood.

"Definitely not her," he says firmly. He drops back on to his side, pulling her along to face him. "She'll miss you. We'll _both_ miss you," he says quietly, slipping his hand down her ribs. Soothing her.

"I'll miss you, too." She grabs on to him tight.

"Of course you will." He's scoffing. Puffing out his chest, but the press of his nose into the curve of her neck is grateful. He needed to hear it, too. "But we'll have to soldier on. Because the Mad one? She's an action junkie, so back to work you go. She wants new stories."

" _New_ stories?" He seems to know he's in trouble even before she says it. He's backpedaling, but she talks right over him. "Castle. Have you been telling our daughter—our three-month-old daughter—murder mystery stories?"

"Not . . . exactly murder mysteries. Just adventure stories about her mom and dad . . . "

". . . whose 'adventures' are precipitated by murder." She grabs at him as he tries to roll to safety, but there's a shift. Suddenly grabbing _her._ Kissing the breath out of her.

"Not _all_ of them." He drags his teeth along her shoulder. "Some of our adventures are precipitated by your sexy talk. Like when you say 'precipitated by'," he groans into her skin.

"You'd d _efinitely_ better not be telling her _those_ adventures," she says. Tries to say. He's pretty relentless. _She's_ pretty breathless, and for a while, everything that tastes even faintly of worry fades away.

* * *

 

"Sorry."

She realizes that's what he's saying. Over and over and over as he kisses her bare shoulders. Her collar bones. Her scar. She rolls herself off his body. The mattress sinks and she swears she's heavier. She swears her limbs sink deeper and the whole bed cradles her body.

"Sorry?"

She doesn't have the energy to turn her head. Her fingers grope blindly for his and it's bliss when he helps. When he slides his palm over hers and his thumb strokes her knuckles.

"For keeping you up."

"I think _I_ was keeping _you_ up, Castle." It doesn't come out the sultry leer she means it to be. It comes out slurred and goofy. She's the good kind of worn out.

"Point taken." He laughs and reaches over her body to tug at the covers. Stops suddenly and places his thumb over her lips when he realizes what he's said. "Don't _even._ "

She doesn't. She doesn't _even_ , but she's grinning with her eyes closed. Grinning against the whorls of his thumb print, and clumsily pushing his hand away.

"Tired now," she says, working her shoulders from side to side. Burrowing into nest the blankets he's pulled back over her. "And you're not sorry."

"Mmm. No. Not sorry at all. But you should sleep."

He flips to his stomach, hugging the pillow to himself, and she knows without looking that he's staring at her in that goofy, adoring way. She'd make him pay for it if everything weren't so heavy and ready at last for sleep.

There's sound from the monitor. Soft, happy babbling, but it's not worrisome now. It weaves in and out of her own breath and she feels close to the baby. Close to him, like it's the three of them against the world, no matter where she is.

* * *

 

He's already up by the time she registers the fact that her eyes are open. That her heavy limbs are urgently trying to move. He's already on his feet at her side of the bed, pressing her back into the mattress.

"I've got her." He kisses her forehead. "It's nothing anyway . . ."

He trails off, quieting so she can hear the monitor. The tell-tale angry squawk that means it really _is_ nothing. Probably not even a wet diaper. She's just bored. Just misses big hands to play with and something other than her own fist to gnaw on. Someone to nod and babble back at her. To take her seriously.

"Castle, maybe we should start . . ." It's her turn to trail off. It's unspeakable tonight, even if it's the right thing. Leaving her to tough it out for for the ten minutes or so it'll last.

"She'll escalate," he says. "And you have to be up soon. So close your eyes, Detective. Big day tomorrow."

"Big day," she echoes, but he's already padding across the room.

* * *

 

She does close her eyes. She doesn't have much choice. She's _so_ tired, and the number on the clock reminds her that she doesn't have much time left even just to rest. To let her body and mind drift and recharge a little.

She doesn't sleep, though. She listens. To the instant transformation of the baby's voice when she hears his step in the hall. His hand on the doorknob. She stops in mid-squawk and waits. Half a minute. A minute. A standoff before she opens her mouth again. An indignant demand—a prelude to escalation— and Kate hears the door swing open.

"This round to you, Mad One."

His voice grows louder as he moves across the floor to the crib, closer to the monitor, and reaches down for her. The baby lets out a happy screech that's impatient, too, and Kate can picture the stern little _well, FINALLY_ look on her face.

It's quieter then. Soft footsteps and steady syllables with Castle making _mmm hmmm_ and _you don't say_ noises in between. She hears the creak of him settling in the rocker, and if she were one whit less exhausted, she'd slip out to peek. It's one of her favorite sights in the world, their two heads bent together in mutual adoration.

But she _is_ exhausted and the clock is relentless, so she listens, and it's a different kind of rest. A different kind of peace and renewal, because it's going to be fine, and they're really so _lucky_ that she's such an easy baby. That Castle can stay with her most days, and his mom and her dad and Alexis and Lanie are lining up to babysit, and she loves them all. That she bounces and cackles when she hears their familiar voices and nestles easily against each and every one of them. They're _so_ lucky, and it's going to be fine.

He mind drifts back to the two of them. To the sense of his words and the tenor of the baby's sounds. She's being stubborn about something. Being set back into the crib, probably. And he's being stern on the surface of it, but delighted underneath, because he's utterly bewitched. Besotted by her fierce little personality.

"I can see how it is, you." The baby grunts and she pictures him tickling her belly. "I can see nothing but a story will do. But . . ." His voice drops to a stage whisper. A Martha Rodgers special. "Your mother's listening, and apparently there are 'rules'."

"Hey!" Kate says sleepily. Indignantly. Pointlessly, because it's not a two-way monitor, and there's no one to care that the two of them are ganging up on her. No one to see her smile at the thought.

"So. A different kind of story," he goes on, raising his voice a little when the baby squawks in apparent protest. "I know, I know. But it's good, I promise."

The end is muffled, as if he's murmuring against her skin. Soothing vows pressed into the softness of her cheeks. And then there's stillness. A dramatic pause that command attention. Hers and the baby's.

"Your name is Madeleine James." He lets it ring out and she knows he's waiting for the way she claims it. They _O_ of her mouth and a crinkled, solemn smile, like she's known it to be hers from the very start. "Her name is Heliotrope. She's a brave little girl, not much bigger than you, and one time—a _long_ time ago, because your mother is stubborn, just like you—she saved Mom and Dad and Uncle Kevin and Uncle Javier."

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Piece of druff (dreck + fluff) I had sitting around. Thanks for reading.


End file.
